


Finally Fine

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: COVID-19, Love Confessions, M/M, Quarantine, Self-Isolation, sort of a sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: After Sherlock is forced into self-isolation due to a suspected coronavirus case, new rules mean that John now has to work from home.OrSherlock sleeps in John’s bed and revelations happen
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 29
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope everyone is staying safe at the moment. Whether you’re in a place where there are loads of cases of covid-19 or whether there are none at all, please look after yourselves. 
> 
> I’ve included some links to different UK Gov websites with more information on how to try to keep yourselves safe. I’m currently in self-isolation. Work is closed, I’m away from my family, and it’s a bit of a nightmare.
> 
> So this is the result. 
> 
> Stay safe and I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x 
> 
> NHS: https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/coronavirus-covid-19/  
> Gov: https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/covid-19-guidance-on-social-distancing-and-for-vulnerable-people

“We can’t keep having this conversation,” John sighed. He wedged his phone in between his ear and his shoulder, gesticulating wildly at Sherlock with his now free hands. “Harry, no. I understand that it’s difficult for you, but there’s only so much I can do. No, listen.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, watching John as paced the room.

John rolled his eyes as he came to the conclusion that Sherlock didn’t understand, shot him a glare, then stormed off out of the room.

Sherlock sighed quietly and slouched in his chair, frowning. Harry had been phoning more and more recently. Between her newest relationship falling into disrepair and her job hanging in the balance, Sherlock could understand her anxiety. But did she really have to phone John every second of the day? She was completely taking the attention away from him.

He was the ill one, after all. He deserved all of John’s attention.

John stormed back into the room, breathing hard and red faced. The phone was missing now, and John threw himself into his red arm chair, his hand immediately going to cover his face.

Sherlock watched him, too exhausted to do much else except listen and sit in a quiet strop that Harry had taken up so much of John’s precious time. These were unprecedented times. The NHS was quickly becoming overrun and John spent all of his time either at the GP or volunteering at the hospital.

He’d been forced to stay in the flat when Sherlock developed a temperature and began coughing.

“You’d think,” John began, pinching the bridge of his nose, “she would understand that I have more things to think about right now than her bloody stupid girlfriend.”

“She is facing redundancy, John,” Sherlock mumbled, not sitting up from his slouching position. “She has every right to be a little tense.”

John shot him a glare. “I know that, Sherlock. Jesus Christ, it’s difficult enough for everyone right now. I know that.” He paused for a moment, then looked up at Sherlock.

“How do you feel?” He asked, standing again. He crossed over to Sherlock and while Sherlock all but lay across the armchair, John pressed his hand against Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock shrugged and closed his eyes.

“I’ve been better.”

John pursed his lips. “I heard you coughing while I was talking to Harry.”

“I’m surprised you managed to hear anything over all the shouting,” Sherlock said, groaning as he pushed himself up into a better sitting position. John pulled his hand away and marched off to the kitchen, but Sherlock was pleased to spot a small smile playing across John’s face before he turned his back.

Clearly the stresses of work and Harry weren’t enough to squash John’s appreciation of Sherlock’s humour.

Sherlock began coughing as John flicked the kettle on.

“The surgery is a mess,” John said, practically yelling over Sherlock’s hacking cough. “I had Margaret on the phone this morning. They’re down to their last box of face masks and a coughing mother threatened to riot when she was stopped from going in. Will you be okay if I set up in the kitchen?”

Sherlock nodded, doubling up as he coughed into his elbow.

“Sorry. I know it’s not ideal,” John added, heaping coffee into two mugs. “But I need the space.” John bustled back into the room and put a mug of steaming coffee next to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. He flopped back into his slouch, exhausted with every breath.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll go up to your room in a minute,” he said, somewhat breathlessly. “I could do with a lie-down.”

John paused, his own mug mere inches from his mouth.

“My room?” He asked hesitantly, looking at Sherlock over the rim of his mug.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to sit up again. “Sound carries too easily from my room. Your patients won’t want to hear someone dying in the background, will they? It would destroy your credibility. And I need to sleep. Your room has a bed.”

“You’re not dying,” John grumbled, sipping his coffee. “Far from it.”

“Feels like I am,” Sherlock countered, taking a tentative sip of his own coffee.

John sighed and ran his hand through his hair. The bags under his eyes has grown heavier since Covid-19 has rolled into the UK.

When Sherlock became ill, John found that he was house-bound for 14 days. However, his GP was one of the rare few in London which enabled Skype appointments. They had given him the option of continuing to work while in self-isolation, and he had leaped at the chance. He could look after Sherlock and work at the same time.

“Fine, okay,” John said eventually. “Take my room. I’ve made the bed and I’ve left the radiator on. I’ll wake you up when dinner’s ready.”

—

Sherlock closed the door behind him. Downstairs, he could hear as John’s first Skype appointment rang out. He sighed quietly and leaned back against the door.

He’d always liked John’s room, though he rarely had cause to venture there. It was quiet, and while John’s bedroom window faced the same direction as Sherlock’s beneath it, he had a better vantage point of the trees behind the slightly smaller flats which sat behind their’s. While Sherlock could look out of his window and see into other people’s homes, John could look out and see the sky.

Sherlock envied the view, though not the distance to the bathroom.

The room smelt like John. The tartan bedspread had been tucked under the mattress, uniform and military. Sherlock thought it looked more like the bedspread in a hotel, but then he considered his own, rarely made bed and decided he wasn’t able to judge anyone on how they made their bed.

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed, sighing quietly.

The room was decorated in much the same way as the rest of the flat. A mishmash of patterns which didn’t necessarily work but somehow worked inexplicably well. John had wedged a bookcase into the room. It didn’t match the rest of the furniture, and was very obviously the cheapest one available. Sherlock smiled. John had always been more practical than fashionable. He also had more pictures than Sherlock had originally thought. There was a photograph of him and Sherlock meeting the Queen. Annoyingly patriotic. There was another photograph of his squad in Afghanistan, all smiling with their arms around each other, squinting as the sun scorched them. John was at the front, grinning and down on one knee, his sleeves rolled up and clearly laughing at something someone had said, though Sherlock couldn’t work out who it was.

Sherlock smiled as he studied the pictures. One from John’s rugby days, another of his Grandma who had passed away only a few years ago.

John had always been disastrously sentimental.

All of the books on the shelves were medicine-related. Shelves upon shelves of extracts from the British Medical Journal as well as famous medical biographies: Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder was the most recent, Sherlock noted. A build up of dust at one end of the shelf showed Sherlock that John had wedged the other books on the shelf further along to make room for it. There were a smattering of fictional books, too. A handful of childhood favourites, such as The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. There were also, and Sherlock smirked when he spotted them, a small collection of detective novels. Agatha Christie, Ian Rankin.

On the bedside table, however, next to a framed photograph of John’s late parents, was an A5 notepad, with a black biro sat on the cover. It was peach in colour, and Sherlock recognised it as a cheap one from the local newsagents. It had been bought in a hurry, then, but not spur of the moment. The notepads were always buried on the bottom shelf in the far corner of the shop, beneath the assortment of pens and rulers. John would have had to be searching for it for him to buy it.

His curiosity captured, Sherlock reached over and picked it up, letting the pen roll off and fall to the floor.

John hadn’t deigned to write a title but there was room for one. Sherlock began coughing again, and as he hacked into his elbow he shuffled under the duvet, craving warmth and comfort. His chest rattled and he squeezed his eyes shut as he fought to get his breath back.

With his eyes still closed he reached over for the notepad. In John’s room, under John’s duvet, all he could smell was John. He let it consume him, too exhausted and too ill question why he found comfort in that. All he knew was that, as he settled into the mattress, he felt more at ease in himself than he had done for a long time. Sherlock needed sleep, and yet he found himself turning the cover of the notepad. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. Stifling a yawn, he peered at the first page.

“ _Dear Sherlock_ ,” John’s messy handwriting began, like shorthand elongated and warped into narrow italics. It was barely eligible.

“ _This is very stupid and I feel a bit like a teenager, writing this. I’ve been here before. Ella told me that writing about what happens to me would help me, but there are some things which I’m not able to discuss on a blog which everyone can read. Some things need to be kept private. Sometimes what we need to say cannot be sent out into the big wide world. Having said that, writing helped before and so there’s no reason to suggest it shouldn’t help me now. There’s no harm in trying._ ”

Sherlock frowned while he read. While John hadn’t said anything, Sherlock knew that Ella had suggested writing the blog at one of the lowest moments of John’s life. That he had chosen to take it up again, though privately rather than online, made Sherlock’s stomach knot.

He’d had no idea John was struggling.

And it didn’t take a detective to work out who John’s imaginary audience was.

“ _You really pissed me off today. You pissed me off more than you reasonably should have, and it wasn’t really your fault, for once._

_“You pissed me off because you brought me lunch at work. And that was it, just lunch._

_“You knew how busy I was. You’d understood when I told you I’d have to prioritise the surgery over our cases. You’d understood when I wouldn’t let you eat with me, and I’m sure you knew that you wouldn’t be able to when you suggested it.”_

Frowning, Sherlock continued reading. He had thought John appreciated the lunch Sherlock had brought him.

Apparently not.

“ _But you came into work sandwiches with my favourite crisps and my favourite fruit. You even picked up my favourite San Pellegrino. I know that we didn’t have anything in the cupboard, not with all the panic buying going in. I was going to run into Sainsbury’s on my way back. Mrs Hudson doesn’t go shopping until Monday afternoon. I know that you’d put effort into my lunch. A homemade sandwich delivered by you was the last thing I expected, and it made me hurt._

_“I hurt because suddenly, all I wanted to do was go back home and sit with you and talk with you and just be happy with you. And I couldn’t. Because we’re not like that, you’re not like that. We’ve fallen into a domesticated trap where you’re not interested or could ever survive, and I’m left floundering wanting to break that barrier down because all I can think about is how much I care about you and wondering just how much you care about me._

_“Now you’re downstairs, making Mrs Hudson hand sanitiser because she couldn’t get any and God, I ache_.”

Sherlock blinked. There were only four pages worth of scribbles, but the revelations they possessed made the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand up. He skimmed through each one, his knees drawn up to his chin with his nose almost flat against the pages, reading impossibly fast, drinking it all in.

John had drawn a chart.

_Pros of dating Sherlock:_

  1. _He’s the best man I’ve ever met_
  2. _He’s wickedly smart_
  3. _He’s funny_
  4. _He makes me happy_
  5. _He’s gorgeous_
  6. _I’m not gay_
  7. _He brought me back to life_
  8. _No day would be boring_



_Cons of dating Sherlock:_

  1. _Sherlock doesn’t date_
  2. _I can’t handle Harry’s smugness when I tell her that I’m bisexual_



Sherlock chuckled at the last one. He closed the notebook and put it back on the bedside table. Through the closed door, he could just make out the murmurings of John as he talked to his patients. That warm, grumpy, impossibly helpful but also impossibly done voice.

He had taken John lunch for a reason, and it wasn’t because he knew that John was spending far too much money in Pret. He’d taken John lunch because he missed him. It was stupid, really. John had been at work for all of three hours and Sherlock had found himself crawling the walls to see that stupid man again. It was any entirely stupid reason to see anyone, Sherlock reasoned, but hadn’t done it for the sake of being a nice flatmate. He’d just wanted to see John and have an excuse to see him.

Of course, Sherlock had been well aware of his feelings for John for a while, but to read that it was at least in some way reciprocated was almost enough to make Sherlock forget that he was currently in self-isolation because of a horrid virus. He smiled to himself reread all of John’s notes.

“Work is chaotic but I know I can get through it because you’re at home waiting for me.”

“I’ve definitely devolved into a teenager. Jesus Christ.”

“At this point I think we could skip the dating. I would like to do the whole dating thing, though. Go to a nice candlelit dinner, drink wine, talk about cases. If I ever pluck up the courage to talk about this stuff with you, and you don’t throw me out, I’d like that a lot.”

“Hey,” John whispered, peering around the bedroom door.

At some point, Sherlock had fallen asleep. He didn’t remember drifting off, nor did he realise he’d been sleeping. He grunted at John in response, his face hidden by the duvet.

“They’ve told all cafes and pubs to close from tonight. Fancy getting a takeaway?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll pay,” he said, but made no attempt to move out of bed. “My wallet is in my dressing gown.”

John didn’t reply, and Sherlock pushed the duvet away from his face. John was staring at something on the bed, and Sherlock realised with horror that he couldn’t remember whether he’d put the notebook back on the side or whether he’d put it on the floor or whether it was wrapped up in the duvet with him.

“Everything okay?” He asked cautiously, not daring to even look for the notebook or follow John’s gaze.

He was pretty sure his heart was about to fall out of his arse.

John nodded, his eyes wide. He cleared his throat.

“Urm, yeah… Chinese okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “Chinese works,” he said, then quickly in attempt to squash the awkward silence which had infected the room: “how was work?”

John came out of his staring trance.

“Yeah, it was fine. Two missed calls off Harry. Mrs Hudson left some soup at the top of the stairs, too.”

“I don’t like soup.”

“Yeah, well I do, so.”

Silence hung in the air like smoke from a cigarette. Sherlock could almost see it. Hovering there, mocking him, making him cough. John had gone back to staring. The notebook was definitely still on the bed.

“John…” Sherlock started, but John shook his head.

“No, Sherlock. Forget it.”

“John –“

“Forget it.”

“But we need to –“

“Drop it, Sherlock. It’s fine. I don’t care that you - I mean, it doesn’t matter that you... I’m going for a shower.”

Sherlock had never seen John move faster as he did when he was fleeing the awkwardness of that room. He heard John close the bathroom door downstairs and Sherlock buried his face in his hands.

“Fuck.”

He reached across the bed and picked up the notebook. Flicking to the next clear page, he grabbed the biro off the floor and began writing.

—

_Dear John,_

_You once told me that it was all fine. I am now going to extend that same compliment to you. It is all fine. What you feel, what you think, the fact that you’ve kept this diary, it is all fine._

_Over the years together you have been endlessly patient with me. You’ve supported me through my worst and celebrated with me at my best. I am forever in your debt and I am thrilled that I am able to call you my friend. There is nothing I would not do for you. Besides fetching the milk and tidying the flat. That would simply be asking too much of me._

_That being said, I am sorry that I have caused you so much pain when really all this needed was a conversation. I told you that girlfriends weren’t really my area and I thought that would be enough. That was before I knew how incredibly obtuse you can be. You crave the solid facts just as strongly as I do._

_I am forever hopelessly, emphatically, in love with you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I am quite honestly thrilled to hear that you’re interested in me._

_You can talk to me, though, if you’d like. These are difficult times and we may need this notepad for toilet paper in the coming weeks._

_Yours if you would like,_

_Sherlock_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thank you for reading this far! It means A LOT. And I don’t have the New Animal Crossing Game so genuinely this is all that’s keeping me going at the moment. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s been sleeping for most of the day. Yeah. No. It’s really not a good idea, Mrs H. Sherlock’s got it and I tested positive when I was last at work. No, I don’t have any symptoms. Asymptomatic. We can do our own laundry, but thank you for the offer. Nah, he’ll be fine. You know what he’s like. Okay. I think Sherlock will be fine in a couple of days so he’ll pop down to keep you company once he’s passed the seven day mark. Alright? Alright. Keep yourself safe. See you soon.”

John hung up and shoved his phone back into his pocket. He was back in his room, Sherlock having vacated it shortly after their stunted conversation and dived straight into the shower.

The notebook had been put back on the bedside table. All John wanted to do was shred it, or burn it. How could he have been so stupid as to leave it lying around? He reasoned that, after possibly the most chaotic days of his life, his privacy was the least of his concerns. Sherlock never went into John’s room. Never. Why would this week be any different to the others?

Just some normality would have been appreciated.

John had forgotten all about the notepad when Sherlock had mentioned sleeping in his bed. Thoughts of Sherlock sleeping in his bed had tripped his brain’s circuit breaker, rendering it useless to the problems Sherlock venturing into his room would cause.

Images of Sherlock curled up in John’s bed drifted into his mind and he had to mentally shake himself. The thought of a lazy Sunday morning filled with cuddles, wrapped up in one another’s arms, warm, content, happy.

“Jesus Christ.” John ran a hand through his hair. “Well done, John. You’ve completely fucked it.”

The notebook certainly wasn’t way he’d have chosen for Sherlock to find out, but he also had no idea of how he’d have told Sherlock anyway. If it weren’t for the government-ordered self-isolation he knew that Sherlock would have already fled, and even then he knew that the only reason Sherlock was actually paying attention to the new rules was he was scared of Mrs Hudson’s mighty wrath.

John was having a hard enough time blocking Mrs Hudson coming up the staircase.

“But I can hear him coughing, John,” she had said the previous evening. “I need to make sure he’s looking after himself. I’ll make him some biscuits!”

“He’s fine, Mrs Hudson,” John had said exasperatedly, standing at the top of the staircase.

Mrs Hudson took a tentative step onto the bottom step, eyes narrow.

“And I’m a Doctor,” John added. “I know how to look after him and I know what to do if it gets worse. Now please, stay away. I’ll get him to phone you later this evening.”

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips. Her foot hovered over the second step, her hand gripped the bannister. She looked ready to argue with John, but when it was clear John wasn’t going to backdown she relented.

“Okay. Fine,” she said haughtily. “Fine. But I will send up cake.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” John said, smiling despite his best efforts. “I’ll send him down as soon as he’s better.”

Mrs Hudson turned on her heel, and John knew he’d be receiving biscuits with raisins instead of chocolate chips for a while.

The shower turned off downstairs and John sighed quietly. Sherlock had attempted to remake his bed, but pillows were in the wrong place and he hadn’t tucked the duvet in properly.

John decided it didn’t matter. Right now Sherlock could punch John in the face and it wouldn’t matter.

He could feel his blood boiling.

John grabbed the notebook and scrunched it in his fist, the cover crumpling in his hand. He ripped it off, which loosened and bent the staples which bound the paper.

Sherlock would surely run, or act like he’d never read it. John couldn’t decide which was worse, losing Sherlock forever, again, or have Sherlock know and know that it wasn’t reciprocated.

John lobbed the scrunched notebook cover as hard as it could, but it drifted to the floor at the base of the bookshelf.

The first page was easier to scrunch up. John threw it and it landed with some success behind the photographs.

The second page collided with the bookshelf. It joined the cover on the ground.

The third knocked over John’s army photograph, and the fourth fell behind the chest of drawers.

The fifth –

John paused. That wasn’t his handwriting.

_Dear John_

—

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock shouted. His voice cracked and he felt a tickle creeping into his throat again. “Go away!”

“Well that’s not very nice,” Mrs Hudson huffed. She stood at the bottom of the staircase, arms folded across her chest. “I was only trying to bring your food up to you.”

“But you just need to leave it on the middle step,” Sherlock sighed. “Otherwise you could become infected. Stop trying to come up here. We’re fine.”

They weren’t fine. Sherlock was quite certain John had climbed out of the window and was attempting to board a train, having sprinted to King’s Cross. But that was neither here nor there.

“Oh, but Sherlock, dear, you don’t look very well at all,” Mrs Hudson sighed, her voice dropping into that caring, sympathetic voice it always fell into when either Sherlock or John were ill.

“Yes, that’s because I have caught this wretched virus,” Sherlock snarled. “And I’ll infect you too if you don’t back off now.”

Mrs Hudson gaped at him, insulted to her very core.

“Well really!” She huffed. “If that’s how you’re going to behave!”

She bustled off back down the hallway.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“If I ever make it through this pandemic I’ll die at the hands of Mrs Hudson anyway,” he thought to himself, then took off back up the stairs with his and John’s takeaway.

Back in the kitchen, Sherlock put John’s plate out for him along with a pair of chopsticks.

The was still no sign of John.

Not surprised but slightly disappointed, Sherlock began plating up his food alone.

Ordering a takeaway wasn’t a rarity for them. Sherlock found cooking boring and John was terrible at it. Sherlock recalled with some fondness the time John had attempted to cook a roast dinner and managed to burn everything except the stuffing, which remained resolutely sloppy in the oven alongside the blackened chicken.

Sherlock was halfway through his chow mien when he heard John.

“How is it?”

Sherlock looked up and found John hovering in the doorway. He shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side.

Sherlock nodded, putting his chopsticks down. “Good, as always,” he said, then: “John, I’m sorry. I should never have read it. It was private, and I –“

John shook his head quickly. “No, no. Sherlock, no.” He took the seat opposite Sherlock. “I read what you wrote. Pass the prawn crackers?”

Sherlock handed them over wordlessly and watched as John tore the bag open and dipped one straight into the curry sauce.

“You know you’ve ordered a main…” Sherlock started, brows furrowed as John shook his head and shoved the whole prawn cracker into his mouth before launching for a second.

“I know. It’s fine. Sherlock, I read what you wrote.”

Sherlock frowned. The only sound in the flat came from John’s relentless chomping on the prawn crackers. With London essentially on lockdown, the streets were almost deserted. Where there was usually a quiet hum of activity wafting in from Baker Street’s traffic and pedestrians, today there was silence. It was eerie.

In a small sort of way, Sherlock was almost glad that he was ill so that it distracted him from not doing anything. On the other hand, vanishing for several months also had a massive appeal right now.

“Oh.” Sherlock put down his chopsticks. “And?”

“And we’re not going to run out of toilet paper,” John said. “And I don’t like that you called me obtuse.”

“You are a bit obtuse.”

“Sherlock.”

“Right. I’ll shut up.”

John sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“When?” He asked.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side.

“When did you know that you… that you were interested in me?” John clarified.

Sherlock shrugged.

“We were on a case,” he said, knitting his hands together under the table. He twiddled his thumbs while he spoke. “And, well, you’d just rugby-tackled a man we were chasing. Do you remember? Over in Whitechapel.

“And he hit the ground and his head collided with that step. And you were on him immediately, checking the bleed and calling for an ambulance. In less than a second you switched from solider to doctor and I, well, I found it amazing.”

A small blush crept into Sherlock’s pale cheeks and John smiled.

“Really?” He asked. “You found me amazing?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shut up,” he chuckled, the blush turning a dark crimson. “You say it to me often enough.”

John’s ears had turned bright pink. He grinned sheepishly.

“Do you realise how ridiculous we both are?” He asked.

“Oh, we’re completely ridiculous,” Sherlock hummed. “But I’m fine with that, and I know you are too.”

John started laughing, heartily, and Sherlock laughed too, until they were both fighting for breath that hadn’t been taken from them as a result of covid-19.

Until Sherlock started coughing.

John was up and rubbing Sherlock’s back in an instant. He pressed his hand against Sherlock’s forehead again as Sherlock hacked into his arm, pushing his chair back as the cough ripped the air from his lungs.

“Let me get you some water,” John mumbled. He put the glass on the table in front of Sherlock and went back to rubbing Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock slouched again, breathing hard. He reached for the glass and spilled most of it down his chin and t-shirt as tried to drink as quickly as possible.

“I’ll be glad when all this is over,” Sherlock gasped, closing his eyes.

“Me too,” John mumbled, taking a step back. “Me too.”

—

John straightened his jacket and ran a hand through his hair, steeling himself for the scariest night of his life.

The virus had swept across the UK. The economy was a mess, but everyone was excited to get back to normality. Offices had begun to reopen, and the moronic panic-buying had almost completely fizzled out. John was exhausted. As soon as their self-isolation had ended he was back in the surgery, and Sherlock had even started volunteering in their postcode, taking food to people who couldn’t go out for themselves. He also began a YouTube channel, posting videos of various science experiments for children whose schools had been closed because the pandemic.

In three weeks he’d surpassed 1 million subscribers.

But now normality was crawling back into London, like snowdrops springing to life through the blanket of snow signalling the changing seasons. The sun shone as John knocked on the door, and Sherlock opened it almost immediately.

“Were you waiting on the other side?” John chuckled.

“Yes. And watching you through the keyhole.”

“But I didn’t tell you what time I was picking you up. The whole point of me knocking the door was to separate it from a flatmate dinner to an actual date,” John chastised. “You’ve completely blown the façade.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

“Are you really going to question my methods?” He asked, and John shook his head quickly.

“No.” He paused, looking up at Sherlock. He was wearing a simple, baby blue shirt with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It was too hot for his coat, and in the sun his hair shone rich undertones of caramel and chocolate.

John thought he looked breathtaking.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asked nervously.

Sherlock ducked down and kissed John’s cheek. His hand closed around John’s.

“I’m sure,” he said. “And I’m very excited to be courted by John Watson.”

John chuckled.

“Alright. I thought Angelo’s?”

“Angelo’s sounds perfect.”

“Alright. Good.”

Together they walked to Angelo’s, hand in hand, squinting in the evening sunshine.

John kept Sherlock’s message in the top drawer of his bedside table, safe, the most sentimental piece to add to the collection.

The rest of the notebook’s sheets they’d used for toilet paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed that and that it wasn’t too doom and gloom. 
> 
> As ever, if you feel like leaving a comment please do, and remember to STAY SAFE.
> 
> WASH YOUR HANDS
> 
> DON’T PANIC BUY
> 
> Love,
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x


	3. Covid-19 Fanfiction Party

Hi. A while ago, I ran an instagram account (sherloco_in_the_coco). On it, I wrote a series of ‘crappy fanfics’, which were essentially 500 word ficlets based on various prompts. 

So, here’s what I thought: if anyone would like to request a fanfic, for free, now is the perfect time to do it! I’ll write it, I’ll post it, I’ll dedicate it to you. Because when the world is scrambling for answers and we’re all trapped inside to keep ourselves and others safe, we need to work together for each other. Some of us aren’t so lucky to have our own Sherlock or John to leave gushing notebooks lying around declaring their love for us. 

I’ve written some prompts based on some songs, but please feel free to suggest something yourself. I’ll aim for each fic to be at least 1,000 words, the maximum being 5,000. Each fic will vary in length but I can’t make any promises on how long each individual fic will be.

I hope this is something you’re interested in! 

Comment your requests if you have any! :) 

\- Indigospacehopper x

1\. “These are the nights that I drink to regret you.” This is the Place, Tom Grennan

2\. “Been here before and it got a little boring, no? ‘Cause I just get angry, when you're saying that it ain't your fault.” Stop Calling, Rothwell

3\. “Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers... starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters.” Howl, Florence + The Machine

4\. “Living a lie, everybody's always gonna bring up my past. Well, I'm past that, my interests up and my bag's packed.” Losing My Mind, Falling in Reverse 

5\. “So let's burn this to ashes and go our own way. So pass me the matches and we'll both watch the flames.” Bonfire, The Hunna

6\. “No more lights in the skyline. No more plans in the pipeline. Only you make me feel right; it’s where I wanna be. Long days, we're together and these nights last forever. Could it ever get better?” sad songs, kwassa 

7\. “The sticks and the stones that you used to throw have built me an empire, so don't even try to cry me a river. ‘Cause I forgive you. You are the reason I still fight.” - Throne, Bring Me The Horizon

8\. “I may not always love you but long as there are stars above you, you never need to doubt it, I’ll make you so sure about it. God only knows what I'd be without you.” - God Only Knows, The Beach Boys 

9\. “Once there was a time when I believed without hesitation, that the power of love and truth could conquer all in the name of salvation. Tell me what kind of weapon is love when it comes to the fight? And just how much protection is truth against all Satan’s might?” The Spirit of Man, from Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds

10\. “So far away from neon lights and city streets, this is where I used to dream. Been around the world, but I could never replicate the feeling that I get beneath my feet.” Orange Trees, MARINA

11\. “I was good on my own until you came along, waited for me to fall. Now you're gone, baby, gone.” Don’t Say You Do, Lola Blanc

12\. “Well I've seen you in jeans with no make-up on and I've stood there in awe as your date for the prom. I'm blessed as a man to have seen you in white, but I've never seen anything quite like you tonight.” Never Seen Anything “Quite Like You”, The Script

13\. “Hoping for the fame: don't let him taste it. He's been stealing dreams nine to five, Monday to Friday. I'mma tell the story my way cause the only way home ain’t on this yellow brick highway.” No Place Like Home, Todrick Hall

14\. “You came on your own, that's how you'll leave, with hope in your hands and air to breathe. I won't disappoint you as you fall apart. Some things should be simple; even an end has a start.” An End Has a Start, Editors

15\. “I love the way we worked so hard. Yeah, we've come so far, baby, look at me, you're my superstar. When I'm afraid, when the world's gone dark, come and save my day, you're my superstar.” Superstar, MARINA

16\. “Let’s not talk about hate when there’s hell to pay for your cowardice and my bad timing.” Our Perfect Disease, The Wombats 

17\. “Arm yourself because no-one else here will save you. The odds will betray you and I will replace you. You can't deny the prize it may never fulfill you, it longs to kill yo Are you willing to die?” You Know My Name, Chris Cornell

18\. “I thought love was only true in fairytales, meant for someone else but not for me. Love was out to get me, that’s the way it seems. Disappointment haunted all my dreams. Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer.” I’m a Believer, The Monkees 

19\. “I like your messy hair, I like the clothes you wear. I like the way you sing, and when you dance with me. I don't know why I love you, I just know I can't stop thinking of you. It's 'cause you make me smile. You always make me smile.” You Make Me Smile, Kyle Andrews

20\. “I wanna be, wanna be where you are, I wanna feel, wanna feel twenty-one, going straight to my head like you used to. Wouldn't change anything that we've been through.” Straight to my Head, You Me At Six

a) Uni!lock  
b) Ballet!lock  
c) Coffee shop AU  
d) Potter!lock  
e) Parent!lock  
f) First-meeting AU  
g) Soulmate AU  
h) Regular BBC Universe   
i) Specific request

I’ll start a collection or something. Thank you!

\- indigospacehopper x

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’ll upload the second chapter tomorrow. If you feel like leaving a comment, please do. It means a lot :)
> 
> Stay safe!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x
> 
> (This is not meant to romanticise this pandemic at all and is a product of self-isolation)


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